


Half Heart

by finlyfoe



Series: The R.E.M. collection [2]
Category: Homeland
Genre: F/M, Gen, Post-S.5
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-12
Updated: 2016-06-18
Packaged: 2018-07-14 16:27:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7180274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/finlyfoe/pseuds/finlyfoe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Astrid calls: “We need to talk about Peter... he came around...I’ll have him transferred to Switzerland.”<br/>“What? The CIA agreed on Switzerland?-“ “…Not exactly...that's why we needed a secure line…"</p><p>Astrid having her own agenda, Carrie to meet Quinn, but alas, with Quinn things never turn out as expected</p><p>NEW: Ch. 3</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Call

**Author's Note:**

> What might be going on in the HL writer's room right now? How to go on from 5.12?- Here my mindgame number 1 - first chapter mainly set-up

I.

Carrie, a glass of chilled Chardonnay in hand, in her apartment near Central Park, marvelling the view. Early nightfall, the lights, the skyline. Franny peacefully asleep in her room. Life is good.

It´s not really her apartment. No way she could afford a three-bedroom-apartment in Central Manhattan. Otto has set her up here, as he has set her up as a counsellor to the U.N.  She loves the job, it’s demanding, it is frustrating (at times), but she sure as hell is on the right side. For a change.

She hasn’t decided yet on the other part of Otto’s suggestion. Proposal. Pointed out to him she needed healing time. Getting over Berlin, getting over the kill order mess, getting over Jonas. She doesn’t mention Quinn.  
Otto is self-assured enough not to push her. It didn’t surprise her. _After adolescence only really fucked up guys prefer a suicide mission over a rebuff_.  
  
Angry at herself for once again musing about Quinn (something she desperately tries to avoid), she helps herself to more Chardonnay, when the phone rings. Inside her apartment - it is not her ring tone though. She is startled, alarmed, searches frantically for the culprit. A burner-phone, in the pocket of her jacket. Oldest trick in the world, she has used it herself. No caller id. Better find out-

“Who is this?”

“Don’t worry, it’s Astrid, I just wanted to make sure we have a secure line.”

 “Now that is a relief. So the line at my U.N. office is not secure?”, Carrie snaps, adrenaline flooding through her veins.

“Calm down. I didn’t say that. I said …”

“I know what you said, I have been here too!” Fuck, she’s so angry! There’s a moment of silence at the other end of the line. Carrie’s shock starts to ebb down. She tries a lighter tone.

“It was that guy at Penn Station, right? The one who soaked me in fucking bubble tea, right?” He was pretty convincing, all clumsy and shy, even offered to pay for the cleaning. Not exactly what you would call a low-key approach though.

She can hear Astrid’s smile. “He is a bit of a drama queen but very reliable”, and, suddenly in a completely different voice: “We need to talk about Peter.”

Shit.  
Ever since Quinn has ended up as breaking news these vicious voices in her head  are giving her a hard time, intonating “don’t push me”, “infected wound”, “nine days”, “follow my voice”, “severe brain hemorrhage”, “I will not leave”, “I didn’t take care of him” and other snippets from their shared past, and right now there is a pandemonium in her head.  
But no, it’s not shit, it is:

“He’s - he came around”, and Carrie hears a strangled noise. It could be herself.

“Oh God. Thank God! Oh my God - oh-“

“I’ll have him transferred to Switzerland.”

“What? The CIA agreed on Switzerland?-“

“…Not exactly...” (Subtext: _Guess why we needed a secure line….)_

“Wow - you did - you did not - you did _what_ …?” _Don’t put it in words, it might fire back at you._

“It’s - complicated. I’ll explain to you if you are over here. That is, if you want to come over.  You don’t have to feel obliged- I know you are busy building your new life and Europe is half a world away, I just thought-”

“Sure, sure I’ ll come. I want to.”

They fall silent.

Carrie feels dizzy. Part of her wants to storm out of the door right now, heading for the next best plane. But she is in the middle of a project, an important presentation to the General Assembly due in two weeks’ time, she can’t leave now.  
Or maybe some of these voices are not too far from the truth. The ones obsessing about the letter.

The letter, buried inside her closet never to reappear. The most heartbreaking thing she ever layed eyes on. So fucking sad, so fucking senseless…

Quinn never would have wanted her to read it if there was a chance he ever has to face her again. Says one of those voices. While another one simply states she is a coward, doesn’t know how to handle his devotion, cos it is just too much, nothing she can control. He’s a runner, interferes a third one, Astrid told her, one who only fell for her cos she was not available, never making a pass at her over all those months, yeah, apart from that night after the funeral (and he never mentioned love, did he, it sounded more like a proposal among brothers in arms), and anyway, off he went to darkest Syria, he sure is screwed up, even worse than her, she shouldn’t- 

“Why Switzerland?”, she asks, a vain effort to shut up those fucking voices.

“Oh well”, Astrid says evasively, “some sort of tradition over here. Like in _Magic mountain,_ folks wrapped up in quilts and duvets and simply breathing, adoring the sublime mountain panorama, getting excellent medical care and nourishment. The air really _is_ good for all respiratory issues.”

Astrid. Practical and crisp as always. Not fiddling about guilt and remorse, never considering stifling comatose Quinn, just doing the right thing. Finding doctors, finding better doctors, finding the best doctors. Pushing on and arranging things.

Carrie holds onto the chardonnay. The city lights sparkle brighter than before. Quinn has made it. She hangs up and drops on the couch. (Italian design, light grey, facing Central Park.)

Fuck, how come she ever considered doing him in! Worse, by stifling him - after he had just survived Sarin gas burning his lungs, stifling him, chocking him, smothering him. She didn’t even notice the cruel irony at the time.  
Fucking Dar Adal’s doing. He had put it into her head. Lured her into taking Quinn for as good as gone… He was dead to Adal, sure, cover fully blown, mind and body so battered, never again up to any black ops games… Dar Adal… How did he dare give her Quinn’s farewell note, as if he was already dead?  
Oh and the cliché in his words, the “worst nightmare line”… as if anybody on earth _welcomed_ minimum consciousness…  
On and on she rants about Adal and how he nearly made her do the unforgivable, outright hideous thing. The anger eases her own guilt in a way, and she thanks God, literally, for keeping her from crossing _that_ line. For the light which made her realize it’s not up to her to push him into eternal darkness.  
She never would have forgiven herself.

Especially as it turned out she hadn’t even done her research.  
A few days after Dar Adal’s pathetic performance a specialist on minimum consciousness (dragged in by Astrid of course) had told her approximately 40 % of all minimum consciousness cases were misdiagnosed, so there was no reason to give up so soon.

Shuffling little feet return her to the present.  
“Franniebannie, you should be sleeping now”, she says in a mock serious voice and looks at her girl. Her adorable little girl, all curls and smile.

“But Mommie, this is the city that never sleeps, my cousins said so, you know!” Carrie tries to keep a serious expression. Especially in moments like this, when this little person is shooing away all dark clouds of regret, Carrie is heart-achingly happy to have her.

“Honeybunny, you have to go back to bed, serious, I will lay with you for a few minutes, ok?”

And while the two Mathison girls cuddle up in Frannies bed, Carrie says: “Guess what, how would you like to stay a few days at Maggie’s and have a serious talk with her about that never-sleeping-thing while Mommy sorts something out in Europe?”  
Franny comes closer, her warm breath is a soft tickle on Carrie’s neck. She whispers: “Will you see Jonas?” “No, Franniebannie, I won’t.” Her daughter´s soft warm hand comes up and caresses her cheek. “I am sorry, Mommie, I liked him too you know.”

How could she not be totally awed by this child?!


	2. Magic Mountain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It takes Carrie seven weeks to make it to Quinn’s rehab clinic. When this trip is over she seriously has to think about her self-sabotage strategies...  
> And why is Quinn not how she wants him to be - his strong reliable inscrutable self?

Seven weeks. It takes Carrie seven weeks to make it to Quinn’s rehab clinic. “Don’t worry”, Astrid says drily, “he’ll hang around some more time.”

She had perfect reasons. Excuses.  
Two weeks for the presentation.  
Another week for the follow-up, no good missing out on that.  
Then Maggie, all of a sudden, heading for a vacation. (“Carrie, I had told you, we have planned this for over a year.”)  
Which made it week six after Astrid’s call.She could have taken the flight then.  
But only two weeks later she was due at Geneva anyway, accompanying Otto to a peacetalk-conference. So why fly over twice within a few days? She might as well head for Davos for the week-end after the conference, taking Monday off for the flight back. A perfect schedule, it saved her taking days off. Plus she didn’t have to fill in Otto on her Davos enterprise, the considerable flight costs would be covered, Frannie was to be shipped off to Maggie only once.    
It made perfect sense, right?

She was surprised to find out it would take her over five hours by train to get from Geneva to Davos, Switzerland being such a small country. But of course, the mountains slow down the ride… So she booked a trainride for Friday afternoon (change trains at Zurich and again at Landquart), due to arrive at the hotel in Davos late in the evening, off to see Quinn early on Saturday.

Friday afternoon, Geneva: She misses her train. Didn’t want to leave straight away after lunch, so many hands to shake and words of wisdom to exchange… Or... self-sabotage?

So. Deep shit. And look who is over there at Geneva station, picking up some international newspapers: Otto, more than happy to see her - and to be of assistance. So she has missed the train? - He would like to take her to - where did she want to go again? “Zurich”, Carrie says, not willing to give away Quinn or his whereabouts to Otto. From Zurich she will easily get to Davos early next morning.

“Otto, that is so kind of you! - But I have to warn you: I have to run off early on Saturday, meeting an old friend from Berlin for all kinds of girls’ stuff, shopping and wellness… so it is an early night for me and it is a hell of a ride for you for just a few hours of chatting away….”

He gives her a warm smile, takes her hand and barely touches her skin for a hand-kiss: “It will be worth every minute, Carrie. I know a spectacular restaurant I would love to show you. We have to tour Switzerland more extensively some other time, taking Frannie along… Have you ever been on one of those boats on Vierwaldstaettersee?”  
So it is a Friday night with Otto. The conversation keeps her mind from derailing (the closer she gets to Quinn, the more nervous she feels) and honestly, who would not prefer a ride in a Jaguar to the Swiss train SBB… or an excellent dinner and the right wine to go along at the banks of Limmat river over SBB-catering...  
Of course it is not an early night for her. 

Saturday morning she feels slightly hungover.  
At Zurich Hauptbahnhof she realizes she hasn’t thought of a present. If you visit someone in rehab, you bring a present, right? She has to find something adequate for Quinn, here and now. The question is: What would be adequate? No liquor for a reconvalescent. Flowers? - Gimme a break… Book? Maybe the one Astrid was referring to, about Davos and rehab - _magic mountain_? But it is not on display, at least not in English and she sure wouldn’t expect Quinn to take on 1000 odd pages in German, giving his status quo. (“Mnemnonic issues” was one of the things Astrid mentioned, she preferred not to ask for further details.) - Candies? Did he have a sweet tooth? She honestly can't recall. So after-shave? - She grabs hold of one of her favorites (“Egoiste”) but puts it back again, the smell makes her cringe with desire and this she can’t handle right now. A coffee mug will have to do. If she has ever known a coffee-person, it is Quinn. She takes a bright red one with a white Swiss Cross on it, quite nice indeed.

It is her steadfast conviction not to mention the letter. If she is lucky he’s not even aware it has reached her.

The shopping takes longer than expected and she nearly misses the train (perfectly on schedule, after all this is Switzerland). When this trip is over she seriously has to think about her self-sabotage strategies... She is not exactly at ease meeting Quinn. Hell, she is about to freak out any minute now, but at least she doesn’t have to face him on her own: Astrid will be there, at Davos Dorf, she promised to pick her up and fill her in on anything she should know. 

Her texts to Astrid don’t get through. She can’t believe it. Tries to call, to no avail.  At Landquart, she has to change trains, from here on the ride is slow but spectacular. Her knowledge of German is rather poor, considering she spent quite some time in Berlin, but it doesn’t matter anyway, no way she could pick up a thing here, too many raspy and throaty consonants and a very different drawl. But people are helpful, polite and quiet and she feels strangely at ease. Or is that the calm before the storm the knot in her stomach indicates?

As she gets off the train and looks out for Astrid, alas, she receives a text: “Sorry can’t make it in time due to Iceland volcano messing up all flight schedules. Have to take train. Address attached, make sure to see the doctor BEFORE talking to Quinn, cu tonite (hopefully), Astrid.”

Carrie heaves a sigh and hauls a cab.

************

The doctor looks underage. Seriously, how can anyone so petite and thin, all big brown eyes and bouncy braid, be in charge of Quinn’s recovery? The doctor girl gives Carrie a welcoming smile and introduces herself as Hannah Hoech (ah, she’s the daughter of the famous neurosurgeon back in Berlin!), then leads Carrie to her office, offering a chair while she makes herself comfortable in a throne-like seat behind a huge desk which makes her look even smaller and younger.  
“Mr Quinn”, as she calls him, is in good condition she states, given the dreary circumstances. A most interesting case, her favorite patient, trying so hard, never complaining, willingly following any instructions, his room right here on ground floor obviously, and -  
At this point, her cell-phone rings. She glances, goes: “I am sorry I have to take this”, gesturing “five minutes” and leaves the room.  
So Carrie is on her own. Yeah, but she is not here to sit and wait at a doctor’s desk. So she gets up in order to find Quinn.  
And she does.

He is on the veranda outside, stretched out on a deckchair facing the spectacular mountainview, all wrapped up in blankets, only his face is visible, sunglasses covering his eyes, a walking frame next to the deckchair. Carrie gives herself a minute to take him in. So familiar, yet-…  More pale and haggard than ever. She can’t make out if he’s awake so she just steps up with a soft: “Hi Quinn.”  
He turns his head a wee bit (so he is awake) and gives her the merest sign of a smile, and she feels like underwater. Could he please take off these glasses so she can see his eyes? It would help her to see his eyes, it sure would.  
“Carrie?” he asks, his voice all familiar but so low. She feels crazily happy. Maybe a hug would be appropriate, but - she decides to sit on the arm rest instead, real close to him, giving him the brightest smile possible. “So, how are you these days?” - Totally lame. She has thought about her opening line for days, even tried some in front of the mirror, but right now, she can’t remember any of those.  
“Fine, thanks.”  
_Oh Quinn, don’t be ridiculous!_  
“So, how’s your schedule here, do they make you”, and she interrupts herself for a, “Quinn, could you take these sunglasses off please-“  
His hand works its way out from under the cover. It holds a card. An index card. Quinn, his motions  slow and shaky, puts the card down and while he removes the sunglasses, Carrie grabs the index card because it has her picture on it.  
And four words in an unknown handwriting: “Carrie Mathison” and “from work”.  
He sees her stare. “My memory’s fucked up” he mumbles and looks at her. His eyes. Blue and deep and - different? What is missing? - Intensity. How come?  
So to him she now is four words on this fucking card.  
  
She needs a moment to herself. To stomach this. Well, what did she expect? It was that fucking waking-him-up-early-scenario… It was her. Fuck. She needs an excuse to flee, again coming up with the lamest idea possible: “Quinn, would you like some coffee? If seen this marvelous little machine inside, I sure can get it to work, I really could do with one...” she feels herself railing away and gets up with a fake smile.

“Would I?” he echoes. “Do I like coffee? Did I?”

Carries inner slide show starts: Quinn with coffee mug in hand. A coffee mug, your average assassin’s haptical substitute for a weapon, sort of.

The slide show switches to all the coffee mugs he ever brought around. For her. Dozens, maybe hundreds. Quinn handing over coffee to Carrie, like her personal assistant.  
Sitting on the steps in Langley. Rushing into the surveillance-office. Then Berlin, his hideout, steaming Kaffee mug on the table and he _not_ handing her one - she knew she was in trouble.  
The coffee thing was the one caring gesture he allowed himself, she realizes. God, if she only had known - been aware of what went on behind these detached eyes… How could she have guessed - he never made a pass. On the rare occasions they touched - a greeting hug, or one for comfort - he was the one to break it off soon. Apart from the night after the funeral obviously but no good thinking about that again.  
Has she ever brought him a coffee around? How did he take it - black? White? With sugar? She can’t remember. Then realizes she never knew, never cared.  
Holy shit, she’s at the remorse thing again.

_Maybe, just maybe he is playing a sick practical joke on her... To punish her...  Oh God please let it be a joke! I’ll make him admit to it, I know I can, and everything will be alright…._

“You are more into herbal teas” she states. No protest, no snarl, no flinch.-

She rushes inside. To the small teakitchen, conveniably out of sight. She goes through the shelves and finds some chamomile teabags, puts one in the new mug, the present she hasn’t even handed over, turns on the kettle. She is in a real frenzy now, noisily opening and throwing shut all drawers, trying to find the capsules for the coffeemachine but mainly trying to get rid of some tension, not enough though so she finally gives in and takes the emergency-Lithium out of her bag, it’s ok, she just has to get a grip on herself. But she is already too wound up, she fiddles too much, the pill drops into the kitchen sink and is gone.

Shit.

Quinn is alive and she should be happy. She _is_ happy. But _her_ Quinn is gone. She is Carrie Mathison, her condition, as much as she detests it, made her Carrie, is part of her, part of her identity. She never realized it before. And whatever was part of Quinn’s identity is erased, disappeared into thin air. He doesn’t know his history, he doesn’t know himself.  
He doesn’t know _their_ history. She feels bereft. Orphaned in a way.  
She should burn the letter. To him she is four words on an index card now, and that’s it.  
So her guilt is gone. The guilt of her not taking care of him how he had taken care of her. Her not letting Astrid take care for him although that was what she should have done back then at the hideout. And the pathic reason, let’s face it: Because she didn’t want to share him. He was hers, her amenity, her soldier, her asset. Fuck.

If she could go back and change one single day in her life… Missouri. That’s were it all went down the drain... Or Berlin? Or somewhere in between?

She buries her head in her hands, elbows propped up at the kitchen sink. Puts her hands over her eyes, giving herself strict orders not to cry, not to lose it.

“You ok?”

She is startled.  
He stands in the door, pale and fragile, God he must have lost half his weight, all skin and bones now, heavily leaning on the walking frame.  
The sight makes her angy. He is the one in rehab, can’t move, doesn’t remember shit, is under heavy medication, in constant pain and he dares to ask HER - 

“Fine, thanks”, she huffs and can’t hold his gaze. 

This is so old Quinn, his annoying ever-protectiveness… She nearly has to laugh, still burning with anger though. Pours the tea into the sink, fiddles with the coffeemachine to make herself DO something, double coffee for both of them, finally able to turn around and put two coffee mugs on the table. _Thump._  
He looks at her in bewilderment, shuffles and drags himself to the chair, slumps down, the few steps obviously a huge challenge, his hands shake, he catches his breath.  
They face each other, coffee mugs in between.

“What is it?”, he insists.

 _Fuck you Quinn._ But she manages a smile.  
“Just realized I - lost something. Something I took for granted. Now I am sorry. Well too late I guess.”  
  
“I am sorry”, he says and looks at her - bluest eyes, and a stupid little girl's voice inside her head prompts “but maybe, just maybe-”

They keep sitting in silence. Steaming coffee on the table nobody dares to touch.

The guy in Quinn’s battered body gingerly puts two fingers on her arm.

The tender gesture does her in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well yes, memory and identity... strange twins. Don't blame me, I didn't do all this to Quinn!


	3. The Stunt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Just let me tell you my side of the story and promise me to keep it to yourself.“
> 
> Carrie looks at Astrid. This woman might be the closest to a girl-friend she ever had. All about a guy, so not exactly Bechdel-test-safe, but still…. And, Carrie being Carrie, is dying to know what Astrid pulled off anyway. So she proffers her hand: “Deal.”  
> ...  
> Finally, Astrid filling Carrie in on her schemes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heavy on dialogue....
> 
> Feel free to find out more about the writer and comment here: http://homelandstuff.livejournal.com/11871.html#comments

As Carrie is about to leave the rehab clinic, visiting hours coming to an end, Astrid breezes in, a small leatherbag slung over her shoulder. Instead of “hello” she says “I have to at least check on Peter, he’ll be knocked out after his night meds so I better rush, why don’t you go save us a table at this restaurant, sorry I have to make you wait again”, hands Carrie a card (restaurant address on it) and is off to Quinn’s room, brimming with energy. Before the door falls shut, Carrie sees her and Quinn exchange pecks, so he sure recognizes _her_ , how could he not, she is the one taking care of him.  
Still the thought has a sting to it.

Out of the blue Carrie does not want to go along with Astrid’s plans. She chooses another restaurant, texts her the address, half hopes Astrid will fight over it, but she simply texts back “ok, thanks”.

After Carrie’s second Fendant (she should have gone for a bottle straightaway) Astrid walks in, now seemingly drained of all energy, slumps on a chair, orders an espresso and the menue and looks at Carrie. She looks more jaded than ever but her huge eyes under those dark brows are very much alive.

“Carrie, before I start any explanations let me make one thing clear: You don’t have to be in this. You can take the next flight back to New York and I will never pester you again. Just let me tell you my side of the story and promise me to keep it to yourself. As I said, you are free to walk off and never talk to me again, but I need you to keep it a secret. Do we have a deal?“

Carrie looks at Astrid. This woman might be the closest to a girl-friend she ever had. All about a guy, so not exactly Bechdel-test-safe, but still…. And, Carrie being Carrie, is dying to know what Astrid pulled off anyway. So she proffers her hand: “Deal.”

Astrid knocks down her espresso. “You had a tough time at the clinic I was told. Sorry about that. You should have heard the doctor out before-“

“Yeah, maybe, so what. I am ok. No, I did not have a breakdown. It was just - I mixed up my meds.”

Astrid rises one dark brow which taints her expression with a faint sneer. “The doctor was worried.”

“She should do her job and worry about Quinn not fuss over me!”

The second brow shoots up.

“I mean - ok, I was - I didn’t expect - I mean, amnesia? Total amnesia - aren’t you - doesn’t it upset _you_?” Carrie concedes.

Astrid takes her time to answer, plucking at the napkins (starched white linen).

“It is not total, for a start. He talks, he walks, he reacts when spoken too - that is quite something. Given his condition two months ago.”

“And how long will it take? Will he ever fully recover, or is it THIS, with just his motion skills improving?”

Astrid sighs. “Carrie, why didn’t you ask the doctor? I am not a medical expert.”

“Oh I asked her alright and she goes“ - Carrie tries to imitate Hannah Hoech and her heavy accent:  “The brain is such a beautiful feature - FEATURE - a work of wonder, we still lack insight in so many respects, I can’t make any predictions, it would be highly speculative and I am a scientist, so just let me say, we do whatever we can, and Mr. Quinn is a very resilient, determined patient so let’s hope for the best, shall we?”

Carrie shots a frustrated, angry glance at Astrid. Astrid blinks rapidly. Carrie knocks down her wine. She has to calm down. Try another approach.

“So how did he end up in Switzerland?”

But Astrid isn’t done with the amnesia discussion yet.

“What the doctors advise is try to make him remember. Take him back to places, childhood, adulthood, family places…. Give him additional sensual incentives like smell or music or noise… It might open up some of his memories. They might still be there, buried. They might as well never reappear. I will try to fill him in, but honestly I know only tiny bits about his life. About him. And all the classified stuff - nobody will fill him in on this, he has no more clearance I assume.”

Some of these memories better be left buried anyway… They both know, no need to vocalize it.

Astrid makes an evasive gesture and changes the subject. “Coming to Switzerland was the easy part. The challenge was to get him out of Landstuhl, back to a civilian hospital in Berlin. You remember the neurosurgeon from Berlin?”

“The specialist on minimum consciousness, the father of what’s-her-name?”

“The very one. He offered to treat Peter at the Charité. They have the knowledge, they have the means - CIA says no. They can handle it, no need to.”

 “They are very prolific at Landstuhl…”

“...for all sorts of war damage, I know. But at the Charité, they specialize in neurology, neurosurgery and related issues. They have research programs, surveys and studies on new ways of treatment, medical and therapeutical branches, they are leading experts…. I could do nothing about it though. That is the trick with hierarchies - there is always a guy somewhere up the ladder who is not personally involved. Easy for him to decide by the book.” 

Carrie doesn’t get Astrid’s point. She sounds sort of delusional -  CIA-staff is to be treated by US personnel only, and for a reason, Landstuhl is prolific, Quinn was in good hands, so?

Astrid gives Carrie a stern look. “As I said, I let it go. As long as he got decent treatment. But then they gave up on him.”

Dar Adal sure did, Carrie remembers.

Astrid plays with her espresso cup. Let’s it circle on the table. Her mind is clearly elsewhere. A few moments pass, before she goes on. She pulls herself up, sits very upright, arms folded, trying to hold her voice low and neutral now.

“They refused to put him on total parenteral nutrition, Carrie. They would have had him starve.”

Carrie is lost for words, shakes her head, manages to mumble: “I didn’t know.”

“Well…. you were busy building your new life overseas, no hard feelings. I was there. I drove to Landstuhl every week-end which is a hell of a ride from Berlin, I couldn’t use the American Special Air Mission Wing obviously…  I was the only one ever to come. The only one who bothered.”

Carrie feels a sudden cold inside. He sure must be one of the loneliest people on the planet. How fucked up is this, millions watching him die and only two people on the visitors’  list… one actually, herself in today for the first time in months. Nobody there to relive any of his memories with him.

“I never thought about it myself… how a comatose patient sustains…. until I literally saw him vanish. IVs and dextrose only take one so far. The doctors wanted to implant a PEG, a tube to feed him. Dar Adal denied. I called him, I explained, I implored… he told me being a vegetable would have been Peter’s his worst nightmare, and I knew he had no idea. About Peter, about his nightmares - Dar Adal was Peter worst nightmare, believe me.” She sighs. “I had no choice. It was either let him die or act unauthorized.”

In a flash Carrie remembers Astrid back in Islamabad. What an annoyingly cool customer she had been, helping Quinn build a bomb while upholding her NATO-desk pretense. Her sturdily refusing to give Quinn away. She figures Astrid is enjoying her present charade. Under her prissy BND-skin is something else, something reckless, the same something that might have got her attached to an assassin in the first place.

“I get that”, Carrie says, “I just wish you had told me. I could have tried to talk to Saul…”

“Saul… Saul with his somber face and his “classified”-classic... Carrie, and: I didn’t trust you with this.” Astrid looks flustered. She doesn’t back down though: “I mean, I was not sure on whose side you would be.” It doesn’t sound like an apology, and Carrie knows she doesn’t deserve one. Astrid adds: “No offence. Mine was clearly a minority opinion. I was lucky they didn’t find his advance directive…”

“He had one?”

“Sure. It didn’t cover parenteral nutrition though. I didn’t hand it in anyway.”

Carrie tries not to look indignant. After all, the end justifies the means, Quinn is alive and awake which proves Astrid was right, wasn’t she. Still… Smart Astrid turning into a grouser is not easy to take in.

“How did you get him on PEG and out of Landstuhl then?” This conversation starts to resemble a maze and Carrie can’t find the exit.

“I got hold of Dar Adal. Made him change his mind.”

 “Adal? Wow. That sounds like a story.”

“Beginner’s lesson actually. Find your adversary’s soft spot.”

Yeah, right. Carrie considers Adals possible soft spot. Making out with boys? Which would explain his recruiting a 16-year-old-street kid. Cross-dressing in the closet? - Both would have endangered and exposed him far earlier, so: No. She can’t think of anything else, she can’t see Dar Adal involved in any sexual activities. Or gambling. Or drugs. His drug is handing out death.

“No idea.”

“Opera. He is a cry-baby with opera, it obviously touches something, his emotional core, whatever…”

Carrie tries to stifle a laugh. “Gimme a break Astrid, I don’t buy this!”

“I know it sounds ridiculous. I am not an opera-person myself…. still, whatever works… I found out by pure chance, actually. Me and Adler were at Bayreuth, the chancellor attending some five-hour-long performance, you might have heard about the festival… More like a pilgrimage, all devoted _Wagnerianer_ , music freaks to the master and the master only, Richard Wagner. Old and new money, intellectuals, bohemians… The seats are unbelievable hard, the rows too narrow, they really make their audience suffer and all endure it, because they are so into it, it’s sappy. And while Adler was pretending to be totally ravished I nearly died with boredom. … so I started looking around to keep myself entertained, grabbed my little opera-glass and right there, nearly invisible in the shadow of a box, I thought I saw Adal. I checked the guest list afterwards, just for fun. He was not listed. I shrugged it away and forgot about it. Some weeks later I spotted him at the opera in Vienna. I was on another BND-assignment for the chancellor and Adler let me take of, as I had already invested in festive clothing… he covers the football-matches instead. This time I was positive it was Adal. I checked the guest list - again he was not on. So I figured it is his clandestine passion.“

“Maybe he simply bought the tickets? C.I.A. officials don’t make themselves public figures, Astrid.”

“Those were not performances you can simply buy tickets for. They were very V.I.P. You wouldn’t believe how hard it is to get hold of tickets for these shows… I found out when I started to plan the stunt on Adal. God I spent a fortune on it, I had to take a few days off just to be able to pull it through, using contacts and assets and sometimes sheer bribary.”

A blonde streak has escaped her ponytails, she pushes it back indignantly. Somehow the tables seem turned, Carrie seems like the voice of reason, Astrid like the paranoid bipolar.

“I managed to invite him to join me at the M.E.T., well not me, Astrid, of course… Saul’s name came in quite handy.” A tiny smile curves her lips, she sips at her water and takes her time, she sure knows about cliff-hangers!

“When I showed up he was too surprised to throw me out, well I certainly gained his coldest glance ever… There we sat in this box we had all to ourselves, I had purchased all the tickets to make sure of that…. it is a weirdly intimate situation, the ushers close the door and there were the two of us in this confined space, trapped in a way. When he cried over Don Giovanni I made my move and cried over Quinn. I implored, I begged … I was desperate. No way I would get a second chance, we were running out of time, Peter getting weaker and weaker by the hour. He desperately needed the PEG or chances were he would die from exhaustion or during surgery. And just when I thought I had played every card and was about to give up and just stay there at the opera, sprawled on the carpet until some paramedic might drag me out, Adal gave in.” 

Carrie tries to picture the scene. This will stick with her forever…

Astrid flashes a triumphant smile, then sighs. “No way I will ever again set foot in any operahouse! Yesterday they had the Don Giovanni-ouverture on the radio, I had to turn it off…”  
  
 “So he was transferred to the Charité?”

“Not right away. They let him have the PEG though. Two weeks later I sent Dr. Hoech, the daugther. She wanted to do research on the case, being a postdoc student with her father, bringing along all sorts of recommendations from the scientific community. The kind of girl to impress Adal: So determined, so young. How could he refuse her this one-in-a-lifetime-chance… Maybe he was even relieved to have Peter and obnoxious Astrid off his hands. ”

“But how come Switzerland?”

“We should order first. The kitchen will close at 10 p.m. sharp and I haven’t eaten all day. I can’t handle this whole mess on an empty stomach.” Carrie hates the delay, but Astrid has a point. Ten minutes sooner or later won’t matter, as long as she gets the whole story. She doesn’t have a choice anyway, Astrid has already opened the menue and studies it carefully, giving the impression of casual concentration but Carrie notices her hand is shaking.

As soon as the order is taken, Carrie is at it again: “So how come he is in Switzerland? You didn’t get Adal’s consent for that, right? So technically speaking you made him defect. Aren’t you afraid the C.I.A. will come after him - or after you?“

“They don’t know he’s here. Not yet.”

Carrie feels her mouth drop: “What?!”

“They receive regular up-dates on his status every two month, the next is due in five days, might take them one or two days to figure out it he's missing. They will get back to the hospital… a few phone-calls, e-mails…  It should be about a week until they know he’s out of Germany. I am aware things might get pretty - uncomfortable.”

“Uncomfortable! Astrid, they will crucify you! They will harass the BND! They will find him within hours… Or do you intend to - duck? Run and hide? Quinn isn’t  in the condition to defect. - But hang on, I get it - they don’t know yet…. We still can work this out. I could call Saul, the damage is not yet done...”

Astrid looks flabberghasted: “I didn’t call you in to moderate peace talks with the C.I.A..  They won’t have him back. I will not allow it. They left him to die when he was in need, they will not have him back.”

“But Astrid-“

“No way. Think about it, Carrie: Nobody knows if, when, what he will remember. All classified stuff. He is a security risk. They will lock him up in a Langley basement cell or ship him off to some deserted island so they don’t lose control.”

“Astrid, now THAT is highly speculative AND paranoid…”

“I know the trade, Carrie, and so do you, and I will not let it happen. This is watertight. He is pretty safe here, it is a neutral country, the law says family’s interests overrule any employer’s will.”

“Well but this is not _any_ employer…”

“That’s why.”

Astrid takes a deep breath. So she _is_ nervous, and she better be. You don’t outsmart the CIA. And there is something else. Something else sounded weird…

“Whose family’s interest actually? You got hold of Quinn’s family? I thought there was none. Nobody willing or able to go down memory lane with him.”

Astrid gives her another of her shrewd glances, silently takes out her cell-phone, fumbles with it, hands it over to Carrie.  
Carrie finds herself staring at a photo of a marriage certificate. Copenhagen 2008. She can’t read the details, obviously, cos they are in Danish. But she gets the point: It has Astrid’s and Quinn’s name on it.

“Only as his legal wife I had a say in this. According to German law, as his wife I am the one to make the decisions about his treatment. Or lack thereof. Swiss law is pretty much the same in this respect.”

Jesus! She counterfeited a marriage certificate! Which in their line of business is as good as a real one, Astrid sure knows experts. 

Although Carrie is alarmed, concerned what might be in store for Astrid, and not only because of the C.I.A., she can’t help but admire her determination. What a keen move. Not fussing over any fallout it might have on her work or her private life. BND-Astrid married to an agent of a foreign country. Not an enemy country, but… there are tensions. He is not theirs. She is not ours. Highly unadvisable. Not to mention the lack of disclosure. And this is only the backstory.

“God, Astrid, have you told your seniors… they must have gone beserk…”

 “Not to mention my tax-advisor… the taxes I could have saved if only he had known back in 2008!” And she flashes an “I-don’t-give-a-shit”-twinkle. “Now Adler was pretty desperate. He’ll have my back though - he sent me on a sabbatical to take me out of the firing line.” She glances at her watch - “It starts in two hours’ time, at midnight sharp.”

“What did you tell him? He knows you well I presume, weren’t you afraid he could tell you were lying?”  
  
“I tried to stick to the truth as much as possible...well, to the plausible. I showed him the certificate. Denmark has a reputation for enabling heat-of-the-moment-marriages, not as popular as Gretna Green, but… convincing enough. How on second thoughts we didn’t dare to tell our employers, risk our careers… always kept in touch though, never filed for divorce, getting together for a few days here and a few days there… how it makes me feel responsible for him. He swallowed it.”

Carrie nods. Clever, that one. “So you had to leave Berlin for good?”

 “Who knows… I’ll stay here for some time, we have to work on his memory…”

Carrie hates herself for bringing it up but as Astrid will have no salary - “Who will be paying for the rehab, if the C.I.A. is out for good? - Quinn must have money. Dangerpay and all… I don’t think he spent a lot on expansive hobbies like travelling or -”  
“or fashion”, Astrid throws in and giggles, all of a sudden she looks like a teenager before her serious grown-up no-shit-self is back.

“I would rather not have him brood over his financial resources and his fallback-plan”, she says. “Not just because of the explanations it would take… We will see as we go along. We’ll figure it out somehow.” Though this sounds somber, she looks happy. Blissful even.

And all of a sudden it makes perfect sense.

The great length Astrid goes for Quinn… _What can I say, she likes me_ …  
His complete trust in her. His faith. To her he went in Islamabad, having cut the cord to everyone else. Faith and fondness. _Fuck,_ _that’s what they call love I guess_. Something that feels safe and reliable no matter what.  
Not the other thing, the drama and the obsession and the zigzagging Carrie feels haunted by.

So she has made the same mistake again. Being half-hearted about Quinn. How on earth could it have happened, how come she hadn’t learnt her lesson, how come she was not all in. She used to be so intense, so gung ho about things. How come she let him slip through her fingers again.

An image pops up in her mind: Astrid and Quinn, a few years from now on, grey streaks in his hair, a few more pounds on her hips. She wears a flowery dress and sandals, he is in shorts, piggybacking a toddler while she is pushing a pram with a baby. They walk alongside, not touching but sharing words and smiles, all happy family.

Astrid’s voice calls her back to her surroundings. “So basically that’s the story. I apologize for doing all the talking.” She smiles at Carrie: “We do deserve a break. You know what: May I invite you to a glass of champagne on the happy occasion of my marriage?”

Carrie nods, all smiling, clandestine looking out for the bathroom signs.  She might have to run for it any second now, bang the door and throw up.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry Delika and kitty7 to make you suffer again.  
> Please don't shoot the messenger. OK, I am NOT the messenger, still it was not my idea to inflict serious brain-damage on Quinn... I just try to live with it, try to explore what it might mean storywise, and tomorrow is another day.  
> I might add a short chapter 4 / Quinn's POV  
> [Seriously, mightn't Quinn be better off with Astrid...? (Ouch!)]
> 
> And couldn't it be the material for some more stories, Quinn down memory lane?
> 
> Oh and I hope SOMEBODY likes the idea of Adal at the opera...


End file.
